no matter what they say, I am still the king
To have safety is both a wondrous and callous thing. It is a bed to fall into, a home to come back to, a heart to seek haven in. He can feel it emanating off the ocean-touched child; the untouchable embrace that mother will always be there, that there will always be a space in the world for him that is free of damage and destruction. To feel secure is such a comforting thing- the knowledge there is a place of refuge, a caress for bruises, a soft tongue for soothing. But it is a fallacy- as delicate and able to be shattered as the dream they reside in.
The gleam in Crowns’ eyes is perceptible and bright, a dash of hope in the darkness of the world the little snake resides in. How delightful to be pleased by the smallest of things- water into wings, and back again. The sight brings a small tug to Eight’s soul; the man who has done naught but pain and torture to the souls birthed from his loins. Is this the smallest taste of searing love and desire that Sabbath felt for the fruits of her labor?
Such innocence and delight- something so untouched by the hundreds of years of darkness that Eight has lived in. It is too easy to forget the months that have passed, the moment of desire blooming and the request for death, and the consequenting anger that had created another dark pit in his soul. The flashing lick of bewilderment in his eyes at how complex the world could be- and how fascinatingly easy it is to mold it. But there are some things that cannot be touched - and spite is a delectable selection of it.
For all else, Eight had never decided to kill the child once it was alive. The revenge was in the taking - the pain was in the cold space that would be beside Sabbath on the long nights to follow. He could, he supposed, let the child live a while longer. The admiration and the thought of awesomeness in the world could be interesting to have beside him for a while yet.
The ocean child perks instantly at any question or prodding - and Eight smiles inwardly at the ease of it all (how so simple it all was, with the power he had at his bequest). “You are, you are!” His voice peels over with the falsity of excitement one would gear towards a child (something so unfamiliar, but quite too easy to mock). “I do love spooky things.” Eight looks out towards the woods before them, his magic pulling slightly to create a constellation of bright eyes peering back at them. He looks back to Crowns, his brows pulling up and in - in mock fright and excitement. “Do you see them now?!”
The ocean-licked boy peers back and forth, and the lightest dapple of scales peeks from his cheeks. Again, the magician has to smile. Of course she could not leave the boy completely untouched - there will always be a little bit of her inside of him.
“You could be a spooky thing too, you know?” He reaches his mouth towards the child, blowing his warm breath upon his blue-tinged chee - and where his breath lands, scales begin to appear (another oil spill in the light of the night).
The innocence of knowing you are right before a quite spooky thing, but being so quite blind to it.
(now, the storm is coming in)